


Kid-Me-Not

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Series: Spidey-shots, Spidey-shots, Am I done yet? No, I'm not [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Betty is a cat whisperer, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Fluff, MJ secretly loves suburbia, Ned can build a fence but he can't cook a hotdog, Parenthood, Peter is just dad-ing it up, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, every flavour of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: The Parkers and the Leedses have a barbecue, complete with hotdogs, club soda, and more than one inquisitive little girl.It's fluff, folks. It's all fluff.





	Kid-Me-Not

**Author's Note:**

> For a Tumblr anon, who requested a fic of Spideychelle as parents.

They think about moving every year, but so far they haven’t. Peter knows it’s both of them, not just him, because sometimes he catches his wife staring at a particular facet of their apartment, and when she looks at him, he goes, “I know,” and she makes a face like it’s doubtful that he’s read her mind.

The farthest out of the city they get on a regular basis is Betty and Ned’s corner of suburbia. Peter likes the drive and his wife likes the mature trees, but not the ‘1950s American Dream capitalist bullshit vibe,’ as she calls it. She also likes the blonde-bricked houses and Peter takes his foot off the gas whenever they pass one so that she has longer to admire them without having to state her preference out loud.

A trip to the Leeds’s is a regular thing for them, though more frequent once summer rolls lazily around again. Flo is five now and goes into a streaming shrill vibration of excitement at the mention of a visit. She’s been raised to call the two Leeds kids her cousins. The drive is just far enough that it used to put her to sleep, but these days the sedative properties of the car ride are only powerful enough to lull her small body into a conscious doze. She exists in this low-power mode with a hand propped under her chin and a serious expression as she gazes out the window, not really noticing the flowers in people’s gardens or the dappled light on the perfect grey curbs, and not really caring about what she’s missed. Peter’s great delight of the drive is catching glimpses of her in the rear-view mirror.

“I brought club soda for Betty,” his wife remarks idly from the passenger seat. Briefly, he grins to himself, rubbing his lip with a thumbnail. Her posture is so like their daughter’s and at this point, Peter can’t remember who picked it up from whom.

“That’s really nice of you,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

She goes by ‘Chelle’ now, which he feels has the sort of heart-wrenching elegance of a ballet every time he hears it. It’s so adult. Frequently, Peter forgets they are both 34.

Pulling into the driveway is the catalyst for the last-minute divvying up of who’s carrying what out of the car and which of Flo’s toys are to be left in the backseat so she won’t scream if the other kids get a hold of them. (Peter has been diligently working on his daughter’s jealous phase, but prefers not to test her restraint on what will already be a high-energy day.)

Chelle and he forsake the formality of the front door in favour of the gate, going straight into the backyard. He and Ned built the gate themselves and Peter gives it a fond pat on his way through. Flo has already raced ahead; it’s pointless to try to carry her. When she was a toddler, there was less kicking, but the second her feet were lowered to the ground, she took off like a released wind-up toy.

“Hi,” he says to Ned. “Hi,” to Betty. And they’re saying “hi” in return, and so is Chelle, and hi’s are basically flying through the air like mosquitos.

Sure enough, there are mosquitos flying through the air as well because Betty’s grown sensitive to the scent of the citronella candles they usually scatter around the outdoor living space. In his spare time, Peter’s been working on synthesizing a replacement that will repel pests without the distinctive odour.

Arms full of bags of hotdog buns and an entire case of club soda (seriously, Chelle could’ve just bought Betty a two-litre bottle. How much does his wife expect her to drink?!), Peter uses his foot to close the gate behind him, but not before Ned’s devious cat bolts.

“Ohmigodohmigod,” Ned mumbles, flustered, but Betty just touches him on the arm and steps around him.

“PalPY!” she calls, high and clear.

Emperor Palpatine whizzes back into the yard and the crisis is over. Peter and Ned laugh to themselves, slapping each other on the shoulder. Chelle has spread her armload of offerings on the patio table and wrapped Betty into a hug like a favourite draping blanket. She’s not a squeezing kind of hugger, his wife, but the sort to relax fully into it like a vertical trust fall. There are few people she hugs.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Ned declares when Peter hands over the hotdog buns.

“Man, don’t tell me…” Peter begs.

“Yep,” Betty chimes in. “He forgets to buy them every time.”

She bites into a strawberry from a fruit tray she’s just whisked out of the house. Chelle selects a large cube of honeydew melon, furtively stuffs it into her cheek, then bends down to make their daughter laugh with a chipmunk impression as Flo slingshots back to her parents in a sudden fit of nerves. This happens when the cousins are reintroduced. She clings to her mother’s leg as her smile quickly springs back up―Chelle’s stroking her wavy hair.

“Peter expects it by now,” Ned asserts, indicating what his best friend of 20+ years has brought.

“Nah, contingency plan, dude,” Peter avows.

“MJ,” Ned says, using the name that’s never unstuck for him (in fact, he’s the only one who still uses it), “club soda? Lame.”

Chelle rolls her eyes as their daughter torpedoes away from her, chasing her cousins to the back fence.

“It’s for your pregnant wife. Don’t be selfish.”

“He’ll appreciate it later when I’m not sprinting to the bathroom to throw up my hotdog,” Betty predicts.

“Hon, that is so freaking gross. So, who’s hungry?” Ned asks with a chuckle.

He retrieves a pair of beers from an open cooler, rocky with ice cubes, and Peter follows him over to the barbecue. Betty is close behind.

“Ned,” she protests, “I can do it.”

“The smoke can’t be good for the baby.”

“The other kids turned out fine. Ned makes up new rules for each child,” Betty informs Peter with a wry smile.

“Peter wouldn’t let me go out on the balcony when I was pregnant with Flo,” Chelle calls over from where she’s setting out cutlery. They always eat first. Many, many summer afternoons have established their priorities.

Peter throws up his hands, careful not to slop the drink he’s just opened.

“It stressed me out!”

Chelle shrugs and gives him a smug smile.

“You got used to it.”

“I had to. You started sitting out there every night when you were on the phone to Betty or May or your mom.”

She grins in remembered victory as Charlie hurtles into Peter’s side.

“Hello,” says a kid with Betty’s hair and at least one missing tooth.

“Hey, what’s up, buddy?” Peter squats and does the Parker-Leeds handshake. It transcends generations now, which is pretty cool.

“Are you watching your sister?” Betty quizzes her.

“Yes,” says Charlie, three-year-old sister nowhere in her vicinity.

“Call her like you call the cat,” Ned suggests, attention on raising the lid of the barbecue to shuffle the meat around, burgers crumbling at the edges, hotdogs reluctant to lift from the grill.

“Ooh, do we think Daddy’s in trouble for that one?” Betty checks with Charlie, who grins, swishing her neatly braided pigtails.

Their other child, Daisy, comes staggering through the grass, hand clutched in Flo’s. Peter feels a thrill of pride, watching their daughter play the big sister.

“We’re going inside,” Flo announces. “Charlie has a new Lego.”

“Awesome,” Peter tells Charlie, eyes lighting up. “How many pieces?”

“I might need to snag one of your club sodas,” Chelle informs Betty. “I feel suddenly nauseous with déjà vu.”

The wives laugh hard at the expense of the nerds they married.

“But seriously,” Peter whispers. “How many?”

“One. Hundred. Seventy. Four,” Charlie says, enunciating with care to increase the impact of how impressive this is. He thinks she could read the announcements when she gets to high school, like her mom did, but that’s a ways off yet. The kid’s only seven.

Flo, tired of being in her father’s company yet not the center of his attention, falls dramatically onto his hunched back.

“Why is it called Legos.” She says it like a demand, not a question.

“Uh, I don’t know. Lemme look it up…”

Before he can get his phone from his pocket, the next inquiry has left her mouth. He can see that the Lego investigation has been temporarily derailed.

“Why is my name ‘Florence’?”

“This is her thing right now,” Chelle explains to their friends, shaking an open bag of pretzels in Betty’s direction. “Questioning what everything’s called.”

“I know this one,” Betty teases. Peter glances over his shoulder to watch Flo’s eyes light up with curiosity. He rubs her warm forearm. “It’s because Uncle Ned and I, and your parents, went on a trip to a country named Italy and, while we were there, they realized that they loved each other. Then,” she goes on (Peter can tell by his daughter’s face that she is enthralled), “your mom and dad went back there when they were grown up and they were in a city called Florence when they decided to get married.”

“Because he asked her to?” Flo clarifies.

“That’s right,” Betty praises.

“Barely managed it,” Ned critiques under his breath.

“Thanks, pal,” Peter snarks back.

His best friend glances down at him and they share a grin, then Ned reaches out for Betty’s hand and reels her in to kiss her cheek. They’re romantics, both of them. Betty probably remembers the moment of engagement better than either Peter or Chelle, and she wasn’t even there.

“Why is Mommy’s name ‘Chelle’?” Flo wonders.

Peter straightens up to grab a pretzel. He sets his beer on the fold-out ledge of the barbecue, then picks up Daisy, who is looking forlorn, so far below the tall people.

“ _Mi_ chelle,” Chelle reminds her. “That’s because Grandma watched too much _Full House_ while she was waiting for me.”

“Where were you?” Charlie asks, confused.

“Still in her belly,” his wife explains. She points at Betty’s rounded stomach. “Like your brother.”

“Wha’ ‘bow you, Da’?” Flo asks, wandering back from the table as she chomps a carrot stick smothered in probably too much ranch dressing.

Peter sticks his tongue out at Daisy to make her giggle before turning to his daughter with a confused frown.

“What about me?”

“Why is your name ‘Spider-Man’?”

Chelle howls with laughter while Peter attempts to handle the situation. Ned and Betty have both known his secret for years (there are only so many excuses he can give Betty for needing to abruptly leave their house on foot with a ragged backpack), but Flo doesn’t really get the difference between saying it in front of them and saying it to literally anyone else.

“Are we supposed to talk about that?” he tests her.

“No. I’ll only tell Charlie.” Quickly, she bounces to her cousin’s side and, over Charlie’s giggling, Peter hears Flo’s high voice saying, “My dad’s Spider-Man.”

“That’s definitely talking about it,” he says.

“Ok,” she is quick to agree with a mischievous smile, “I’ll only tell Palpy.”

Flo darts off after the cat, who has decided on a frantic run across the yard. Charlie helpfully tries to copy her mother’s method of calling the cat, but Emperor Palpatine is not convinced by the imitation.

Peter spins Daisy around once before letting the toddler into the fray as well.

“She’s so much like you,” Betty observes to Chelle, watching Flo track the cat with determination. “Brave, unstoppable.”

Ned snorts.

“Nah, she’s like Peter.”

“Watch it,” Peter warns jokingly, picking up his beer.

“I was gonna say because she has so much energy, dude, _duh_.”

“Well, that’s true,” Chelle says, walking to Peter and propping her elbow on his shoulder. He holds her around the waist, longing to cradle her closer than social norms permit. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with two of them.”

For a moment, there is no sound but the sizzling hotdogs (Ned’s probably burning them―Betty is the true grill-master of the Leeds family) and the shouts of three little girls. Then, Betty’s delighted gasp and Ned’s pure shriek of joy.

Peter’s beer sweats in his hand. He has never been happier.


End file.
